about that?’
‘I think you’ll find it’s common knowledge in West Sussex. Is it true that Catarina has asked you to investigate Robin’s death?’
‘That’s common knowledge in West Sussex too?’
‘It must be, mustn’t it?’
‘Well, this time West Sussex is wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m not investigating anything.’
‘Did Catarina say why she thought it was murder?’
I wondered how much to tell her. The rumour mill in the village had clearly already been working overtime. ‘Nothing much,’ I said. ‘She just thought it inexplicable that he would have drowned like that.’
‘Even if he was high at the time?’
‘He’d stopped taking drugs,’ I said.
‘Not when I knew him.’
‘It would have shown up in the coroner’s report.’
‘How do you know it didn’t?’
‘Tom Gittings covered the hearing for the Observer .’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Fair enough. If that’s what Tom Gittings of the Chichester Observer says. Or what he doesn’t say.’
There was a touch of contempt in this last statement.
‘You know Tom?’
‘A bit. He’s never mentioned me, then?’
I wondered if I could rescue Tom from this omission.
‘Actually, thinking about it, maybe he did mention you once or twice …’
‘Nice try, Ethelred. But he clearly hasn’t breathed a word. Another case of what Tom hasn’t said. Still, I am happy to reveal I know Tom, even if he is remaining silent on the matter.’
I looked at my watch. I was already late for lunch.
‘Here’s my address in West Witt,’ she said, scribbling something on the back of a business card. ‘Drop by ifyou do decide to investigate on Catarina’s behalf. I might actually be able to help.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. I gave her one of my own cards in return. It wasn’t entirely a waste. She might just look at my website and maybe buy a book. But that was the most I expected to come from the conversation.
Obviously I was wrong. I mean, I’d hardly be telling you now about a chance meeting with somebody who proved to have nothing at all to do with Robin’s disappearance, would I?
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘How was your morning?’ I asked.
‘Dull,’ said Tom. ‘I have detailed notes on a series of shopliftings and car thefts that I have to turn into news. The problem is making one shoplifting sound superficially different from another, or any of the shoplifters better than a two-dimensional caricature. I take your point that most real life crime is tedious in the extreme. To the extent crime fiction is based on reality, I don’t quite understand its popularity.’
‘It’s all a question of how you tell them,’ I said. ‘I’ve done a short story on a shoplifter that worked quite well – at least, I thought it did. The motive, at least, was amusing: to return something shoplifted from another store the previous day.’
‘Why?’
‘He feels sorry for the shopkeeper he stole from the first time round. He no longer has the thing he stole, so he steals another one from elsewhere.’
‘And he gets caught the second time?’
‘No, he gets caught as he smuggles it into the first shop to place it back on the shelves. The shopkeeper recognises him. Crime writers like irony and injustice. Most crime writing isn’t about crime, of course. It’s about detection. It’s a type of puzzle that just happens to be about murder. What makes murder a convenient vehicle is that one of the two people who know for certain what has happened is dead and the other isn’t letting on – indeed the other is usually lying through their teeth.’
Tom nodded, as if storing that information away on one of the remoter shelves in his memory. Then I added: ‘I ran into an old friend of yours outside the cathedral. Sophie Tate? She said she used to go out with Robin? She was engaged to him?’
The expected smile of recognition did not come. ‘What else did she tell you?’ he asked.
‘Not a lot. But you do know her?’
Tom looked over towards the bar,
‘I think you’ll find it’s common knowledge in West Sussex. Is it true that Catarina has asked you to investigate Robin’s death?’
‘That’s common knowledge in West Sussex too?’
‘It must be, mustn’t it?’
‘Well, this time West Sussex is wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m not investigating anything.’
‘Did Catarina say why she thought it was murder?’
I wondered how much to tell her. The rumour mill in the village had clearly already been working overtime. ‘Nothing much,’ I said. ‘She just thought it inexplicable that he would have drowned like that.’
‘Even if he was high at the time?’
‘He’d stopped taking drugs,’ I said.
‘Not when I knew him.’
‘It would have shown up in the coroner’s report.’
‘How do you know it didn’t?’
‘Tom Gittings covered the hearing for the Observer .’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Fair enough. If that’s what Tom Gittings of the Chichester Observer says. Or what he doesn’t say.’
There was a touch of contempt in this last statement.
‘You know Tom?’
‘A bit. He’s never mentioned me, then?’
I wondered if I could rescue Tom from this omission.
‘Actually, thinking about it, maybe he did mention you once or twice …’
‘Nice try, Ethelred. But he clearly hasn’t breathed a word. Another case of what Tom hasn’t said. Still, I am happy to reveal I know Tom, even if he is remaining silent on the matter.’
I looked at my watch. I was already late for lunch.
‘Here’s my address in West Witt,’ she said, scribbling something on the back of a business card. ‘Drop by ifyou do decide to investigate on Catarina’s behalf. I might actually be able to help.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. I gave her one of my own cards in return. It wasn’t entirely a waste. She might just look at my website and maybe buy a book. But that was the most I expected to come from the conversation.
Obviously I was wrong. I mean, I’d hardly be telling you now about a chance meeting with somebody who proved to have nothing at all to do with Robin’s disappearance, would I?
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘How was your morning?’ I asked.
‘Dull,’ said Tom. ‘I have detailed notes on a series of shopliftings and car thefts that I have to turn into news. The problem is making one shoplifting sound superficially different from another, or any of the shoplifters better than a two-dimensional caricature. I take your point that most real life crime is tedious in the extreme. To the extent crime fiction is based on reality, I don’t quite understand its popularity.’
‘It’s all a question of how you tell them,’ I said. ‘I’ve done a short story on a shoplifter that worked quite well – at least, I thought it did. The motive, at least, was amusing: to return something shoplifted from another store the previous day.’
‘Why?’
‘He feels sorry for the shopkeeper he stole from the first time round. He no longer has the thing he stole, so he steals another one from elsewhere.’
‘And he gets caught the second time?’
‘No, he gets caught as he smuggles it into the first shop to place it back on the shelves. The shopkeeper recognises him. Crime writers like irony and injustice. Most crime writing isn’t about crime, of course. It’s about detection. It’s a type of puzzle that just happens to be about murder. What makes murder a convenient vehicle is that one of the two people who know for certain what has happened is dead and the other isn’t letting on – indeed the other is usually lying through their teeth.’
Tom nodded, as if storing that information away on one of the remoter shelves in his memory. Then I added: ‘I ran into an old friend of yours outside the cathedral. Sophie Tate? She said she used to go out with Robin? She was engaged to him?’
The expected smile of recognition did not come. ‘What else did she tell you?’ he asked.
‘Not a lot. But you do know her?’
Tom looked over towards the bar,
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